In late September 2024, I was presented with an opportunity I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept. My heart and mouth said yes before my fear could catch up.
“Yes, I accept the opportunity to be the President of BurlyCon.”
I had already served as Vice President for about a year. I knew succession was possible, but I didn’t know how or when it would happen. As the reality set in, the questions followed quickly. Am I ready for this? How will I be perceived? How does this even work?
Then another realization hit just as hard: I was stepping into this position as a Black woman.
That meant the cards were stacked differently. I would be watched differently. Judged differently. Measured against standards rarely applied equally. Panic set in, but so did a familiar knowing. I am used to this. In Burlesque, we often like to believe we are absolved of bias, racism, sexism, and other -isms, that the art form exists outside of harm. But my lived experience, both inside and outside of burlesque, has taught me otherwise.
Two weeks into my presidency, the work began in a way I couldn’t have predicted.
A situation arose involving someone invited to attend the conference, one we couldn’t ignore. Social media moved faster than our internal process. By the time we were able to respond, performers were publicly tagging BurlyCon, demanding accountability. As I scrolled through the comments, I learned just how many negative assumptions people held about the organization and how we operate.
I tried to respond to every comment. In that moment, my identity and BurlyCon’s felt inseparable. Silence felt like a moral failure. If I didn’t answer, it felt like an attack on my character, on who I am and what I stand for. After a day of tears (and some very stiff drinks), the next day I went live on social media with a prepared statement I had carefully crafted.
I’m grateful that I did. Putting a face to the work shifted the conversation. People could see who they were speaking to and hear what BurlyCon was actively doing. After that live, I received exactly one apology. Even that apology included policing my tone and word choice. I addressed the microaggression immediately.
That moment shook me to my core.
I pulled back from social media. I second-guessed myself. I asked myself, Am I really ready to lead in this position? I felt as though everything was stacked against me. I don’t have a bachelor’s degree. I’m disabled. I’m from the hood. I’m on the spectrum with ADHD. I’m a full-time performer and head of my household, a one-woman operation with a constantly shifting schedule. And on top of all of that, I am Black.
Even if every box were checked, I would still be Black, and I would still be judged more harshly than a white leader.
Around this time, Kamala Harris began her run for office. I watched Black women rally around her in a way that felt deeply familiar and deeply emotional. I wondered what that kind of collective support felt like up close. Thankfully, BurlyCon’s Board showed up for me. Kamala and I were both positioned as needing to prove ourselves for jobs we were already qualified to do.
Even though she didn’t win, I arrived at BurlyCon 2024 knowing I needed to show why I was here, what BurlyCon means to me, and what the people who attend mean to me.
BurlyCon has been part of my life since 2012. I have watched myself and others grow through attending, teaching, and supporting. It is the only place, across all my work, where I have experienced real upward mobility. I have defied every negative statistic assigned to me as a Black woman.
Leading this organization has taught me many things. One of the hardest lessons is that leadership often means cleaning up and restructuring what came before you. It means listening to concerns, asking questions, making decisions, and accepting that not everyone will like the outcome. It means understanding that meaningful change takes time and money.
This presidency is voluntary. I consider it community service. I give my time, my labor, and often my own money. There is no stipend but I show up: to listen, to hold space, to guide and sustain.
I don’t consider it a thankless job. I see the joy in people’s eyes when BurlyCon works. I see the staff’s dedication, and it fills me with pride. Still, there are moments when I wish this labor were recognized differently.
We are in a modern-day Renaissance of Black performers, and that deserves celebration. But we are failing to celebrate Black leadership with the same enthusiasm. Black leaders are often scrutinized more than they are supported, judged more than they are uplifted. I watch my peers win crown after crown and receive headlining opportunities as a result, and I cheer for them. At the same time, I watch Black leaders be overlooked.
Their work happens offstage, away from the spotlight, but it is just as essential. Fundraising is an art. Community-building is an art. Organizing a conference that takes months of planning is an art. We may not give a four-to-six-minute performance in rhinestones, but we create the stages others stand on.
Some artists do both, win crowns and lead. But I ask this honestly: when they are Black, which do you notice more? Their performance or their leadership?
This essay is not about resentment. It is about redefining what excellence looks like in burlesque, especially Black excellence.
Do I want a crown? Absolutely. I am putting in the work for one, just as I put in the work as President of BurlyCon. These efforts are not mutually exclusive, even though they are often treated that way. In burlesque, achievement is easiest to recognize when it is performed publicly, wrapped in glamour, and confined to a few minutes onstage. Leadership does not fit neatly into that window. It lives in long hours, difficult decisions, and sustained responsibility.
My title does not shine under stage lights. It lives behind the scenes, across nearly every day of the year, culminating in a handful of days where I am visible only in fragments, shaking hands, answering questions, holding space. I hold a title without a shiny crown, and in a community that understands value through spectacle, that kind of leadership is easy to miss.
This tension deepens for Black leaders, whose work is often scrutinized through a narrower lens and denied the assumptions of competence and grace, even as it sustains the systems that overlook it. Black leadership often becomes invisible not because it lacks brilliance, but because it refuses to collapse without applause.
Realizing how easily Black leadership is overlooked fundamentally shaped how I lead BurlyCon. When you understand that your labor may not be recognized, immediately or at all, you stop leading for applause and start leading for impact. I learned early that if I waited for affirmation before acting, the organization would stall. Instead, I centered sustainability, clarity, and care, trusting the work to speak louder than validation.
As a Black leader, I lead with intention rather than spectacle, and my leadership is rooted in preparation, transparency, and follow-through. I build systems meant to outlast me, because visibility is fleeting but infrastructure endures. My responsibility is not to be liked, but to be accountable.
This approach is not unique to me. Many Black leaders, particularly those whose work happens offstage, learn to lead this way out of necessity. When recognition is uncertain, the focus shifts to collective survival. Black leaders become fluent in doing the work regardless of whether it will be celebrated. We prioritize community over ego, continuity over accolades, and long-term health over short-term praise.
The undervaluing of Black leadership has a collective cost. When leadership labor is minimized, burnout becomes inevitable. When organizers, administrators, and vision-holders are treated as secondary rather than essential, communities lose institutional memory, stability, and care. Festivals disappear. Programs dissolve. People walk away quietly, carrying years of unpaid labor with them.
Despite this, Black leaders continue to show up. We fundraise. We organize. We build. We create access where none existed before. The work persists not because it is rewarded, but because it is necessary.
Leadership has taught me that visibility is not the same as value, and being seen is not the same as being effective. A crown may mark a moment, but leadership measures time, what is sustained, what is protected, what is carried forward. I hold a title without a shiny symbol, but it is heavy with responsibility and shaped by care. As a Black leader, I have learned to build without waiting for applause, to lead without guaranteed recognition, and to trust that the most meaningful work often happens quietly.
To the Black leaders who came before me, who stand beside me, and who will come after me: your work matters. Your mind matters. Your heart matters. Your art matters. Most importantly, you matter. We may not receive a standing ovation after long nights of emails, meetings, and decisions, but know this: I see you, and I value you. I hope this essay helps others see you, too, and choose to support you.
If BurlyCon continues to exist, to evolve, and to hold its community with intention, then the work has done what it was meant to do.
Not everything that matters needs to shine.
By BurlyCon president GiGi Holliday, from a commissioned series to mark Black History Month 2026.